


Idle Hands

by thirdstringstar



Category: Granblue Fantasy (Video Game)
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Kiss, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2020-06-16
Packaged: 2021-03-04 00:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,823
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24724225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirdstringstar/pseuds/thirdstringstar
Summary: Belial mouths off in the lab.
Relationships: Belial/Lucilius (Granblue Fantasy)
Comments: 13
Kudos: 82





	Idle Hands

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to arte for betaing and reddo for making fun of faa's small dick. love you guys!

Lucilius rarely smiles.

Not that he isn’t an emotional creature; it’s really quite the opposite. Belial has borne witness to his more unique methods of self-expression—often in writing, occasionally in the form of some writhing monstrosity—but as a general rule, reading Lucilius is a simple matter of differentiating between a charming assortment of frowns.

Belial knows them by heart: the just short of an epiphany frown, the calculation error frown, the _Belial, you are on my last nerve_ frown. He spends much of his free time around the lab—jumping all too willingly at the chance to lend a hand when ordered, but mostly just draping himself on furniture and starting one-sided conversations until Lucilius finally gets fed up and sends him away.

Even if those cold eyes never turn on him, even if he gets nothing aside from a single bored, authoritarian syllable, the split second of acknowledgement is worth all the effort in the world.

“Out,” Lucilius says, and Belial cheerily obliges like a well-trained dog. He takes the scenic route back to his room, imagining how other commands might drip from Lucilius’s tongue, flat and dispassionate and so unfairly arousing.

By the time he’s made it to his room Belial is painfully hard, and it takes little more than a minute of rough strokes before he’s coming all over himself, choking on Lucilius’s name.

Belial has long entertained the thought of stealing a fleeting touch, maybe even a kiss. While it would certainly be worth it to go out with a bang, destroyed by the same beautiful hands that made him, he much prefers the long game.

“Anything for you,” Belial says, dropping a stack of neatly filed reports into Lucilius’s waiting hands. 

Nothing—not even a roll of his gorgeous cold eyes. Lucilius is too used to him by now. Belial wonders if he should press his boundaries.

He doesn’t, not physically at least—not until the day arrives when he finds Lucilius hunched at his desk, silent and still and wearing a frown Belial doesn’t recognize.

There’s a furrow between his brows and his lips look pink and bitten, as though he’s been gnawing on them. What Belial wouldn’t give to kiss them better—but he feels a stir of genuine concern as he bends down and searches Lucilius’s eyes, finding them narrowed but distracted, staring straight through his pile of notes.

“Cilius?” Belial probes, reaching for a slender shoulder but not daring to touch.

“What is it,” he says without looking up. “I’m working.”

Belial waves a hand in front of Lucilius’s eyes, and it does the trick. He snaps his head up, voice low and icy as he growls, “ _what_.” Lucilius hates repeating himself, Belial knows—but he’s reveling in the attention, at how exposed he feels under that penetrating, clinical gaze. Base acknowledgement is gratifying, but undivided attention is incredible.

Belial smiles and relaxes into a slouch, biding his time until he’s sure Lucilius is about to snap.

“You seem distracted,” Belial says, just as Lucilius opens his mouth.

Lucilius sighs, and the lines between his eyebrows ease near imperceptibly.

“This body,” he says, perfectly measured, “is imperfect and frustrating. It’s a hindrance to my productivity.”

His frown deepens into something more familiar, a quick downturn at the corners of his lips.

“As are you.”

“Aw, don’t be that way, Cilius. Seems like I might be just what you need right now.”

“Is that so.” He’s turned back to his notes and is diligently pretending to be immersed in his work, but Belial’s hooked him now, and they both know it.

“So tell me all about this imperfect, frustrating body of yours,” Belial says, propping an elbow on the desk and crowding into Lucilius’s space. He’s pushing his luck, casting a shadow over the notes Lucilius isn’t reading.

Lucilius scrunches up his nose and swats at Belial, who ducks away just in time. Lucilius has never shied away from telling Belial exactly what he wants, but today his tongue seems stuck behind that indecipherable frown. Belial is more than happy to fill in the gaps, considering where this conversation seems to be headed.

“Cilius,” Belial says, keeping his voice low and serious as he leans back in. “You’re not trying to tell me you’re all hot and bothered, are you?”

Lucilius goes very still.

“Because—if that _is_ what you’re saying—you really have no idea what that would _do_ to me.” He’s way over the line, but he can’t stop now—not when he’s this close, not when he’s spent nearly every waking minute imagining them here like this. He ghosts his lips over Lucilius’s ear, so close he can _feel_ the shiver that runs up his creator’s delicate spine. “Really, Cilius, you have no idea how much I’d love to help you with that.”

It’s with an equal rush of arousal and disbelief that Belial realizes Lucilius hasn’t ordered him to get out or even stop talking. He’s so worked up from the proximity alone, the mere thought of being granted the privilege of getting Lucilius off, it _hurts_.

He shifts his legs, biting back a groan at the shuffle of fabric against his half-hard dick, and drops to his knees at Lucilius’s side, gazing up into cold, emotionless eyes that flick down to regard him with just the slightest hint of interest. The only real betrayal is the way Lucilius’s breath comes a shade quicker than usual, more encouragement than Belial could ever ask for. He wants to pull Lucilius apart slowly, wants to lavish every inch of him with the praise he deserves, wants to hear his voice high and broken and lilting with pleasure. He’s nearly shaking at the thought of it, fighting to keep his voice steady as he pops the question.

“Cilius,” he murmurs, voice dripping with reverence, “can I touch you?”

Lucilius turns his chair slowly to square himself and drinks him in for a moment, eyes dragging down the length of Belial’s body as though appraising him. He’s making a show of taking his time, but Belial is patient. He’s waited this long. He could wait for millennia.

When Lucilius finally speaks, it’s firm and certain, without the usual chill.

“Yes.”

_Yes_.

Belial almost comes on the spot, but he’s nothing— _nothing_ if not patient, nothing if not good. So he squeezes his thighs together and denies the heat in his groin and finally, _finally_ lays hands on his creator.

He runs his hands up the folds of Lucilius’s robe, tracing the contours of his thighs through the fabric. He’s aching to know if Lucilius is hard already, to see and feel and taste his arousal, to show Lucilius just how much he wants him, how much he can take, how good he can be—but he stops his hands midway up to gently spread apart Lucilius’s legs and scoot into the gap between them, closer, closer, never close enough. He raises his arms like he’s reaching for salvation, gingerly tracing along the contours of Lucilius’s face, harsh lines and pale skin, a vision cut from marble so generously granting permission.

He slides his thumb over Lucilius’s bottom lip, recognizing that precious, irritated pout as the frown made specifically for him.

“What are you doing.”

Belial can feel the words vibrate through his fingertips.

“Touching you,” he replies breathlessly.

“If you insist on wasting my time,” Lucilius says, “I have plenty of far more efficient ways to deal with this problem on my own.”

Oh—Belial ducks his head to hide the grin that splits his lips—that’s something he’d die a thousand times to see. But Lucilius wants him—Belial wouldn’t have gotten this far if he didn’t. And the thought that Belial is the only one who can wring out every drop of pleasure his sweet, frustrated creator has been burying, denying, and fretting over makes his heart jump and his cock ache.

But he can’t get ahead of himself, not even when Lucilius scowls and nudges at him with his foot to get on with it.

“I’m getting there, Cilius, I promise,” Belial reassures, looking up once he’s sure he can keep a straight face. “Rushing through things is _so_ unsatisfying, you know? I want to make you feel amazing. A slow build makes for one hell of a payoff.”

Lucilius doesn’t argue, and Belial steadies his hands against the sides of his face. He can see his own desperate reflection in Lucilius’s cold blue eyes.

“Hey, Cilius,” he breathes, and Lucilius exhales through parted lips. “Can I kiss you?”

A carefully measured beat, then a pointedly disinterested, “Yes.”

Lucilius is trying too hard, and Belial loves him for it. His precious maker, laid low by his own desires—Belial loves him more than anything, more than all the pleasures of the world, more than life itself. He loves him so much it hurts, a tug in his chest that draws him in as he tilts his head, breath hitching in the gap between their lips before he lets himself dive in, touch-starved but painstaking in his self-control.

He starts out slow, catching Lucilius’s stress-bitten lips between his own—no teeth, no tongue, just soft, loving touch. He strokes up the side of Lucilius’s face, threading his fingers in fine, silken hair, impossibly soft.

Lucilius sits very still, arms at his sides as Belial lays kiss after languid kiss against his rigid mouth. Both hands have crept into Lucilius’s hair, playing, twirling, rubbing circles into his scalp. Belial drops one hand to the back of Lucilius’s neck, stroking out a shiver in time with a questioning flick of his tongue, and to his delight Lucilius finally parts his lips and lets him in.

Belial can’t help his eagerness, licking into the heat offered to him, moaning openly into Lucilius’s mouth and earning himself a quick bite on the tongue. He recoils, sputtering, “ _Ow_ , Cilius,” but he can’t stop laughing, too giddy to process the pain as anything but pleasure.

He dips back in for seconds before Lucilius can chide him, a close-mouthed apology before Lucilius opens his mouth again, this time to reciprocate. He’s measured as always as he tugs at Belial’s lip, rolling the soft flesh between his teeth, and Belial chokes on another moan, kissing feverishly back as he rakes his nails through Lucilius’s hair. It’s more than he’d ever hoped for, more than he deserves, and when he feels the slick, tentative rub of Lucilius’s tongue against his own Belial thinks he really might die. He mewls into the contact and lets Lucilius invade him, happily surrendering the lead.

Lucilius is finding his stride at this point, nipping and sucking and it’s all Belial can do to keep up. Lucilius fists a hand into Belial’s hair, touching him— _finally_ touching him—and Belial whines as he’s pulled in further, his pants unbearably tight, his blood on fire.

“Mm, Cilius,” Belial murmurs against hungry, spit-slick lips, “you’re actually pretty good at this. Been practicing?”

Lucilius lets him go, huffing as he straightens up in his chair. His hair is ruffled, but aside from the wetness on his lips he looks oddly composed.

“Enough preamble for you?” There’s a rasp in his voice that’s entirely new, the slightest hint of him coming undone.

“Never,” Belial answers truthfully, but it’s not about him. Lucilius is already so worked up—the edge in his voice is the most damning of tells—that Belial can’t help spoiling him.

So he drops onto his haunches and flits his hands under Lucilius’s robes, skimming along warm, slender thighs and then sliding up to rub at his hips. Lucilius grinds his teeth; he’d sooner die than beg to be touched, but Belial is just as eager, hooking his fingers into the waistband of Lucilius’s leggings and tugging them down as far as he can. To Belial’s surprise, Lucilius actually maneuvers helpfully, allowing the fabric to be pulled halfway down his thighs. His robes are bunched up at his waist, and he’s kind enough to hold them there, blessing Belial with a stunning view of absolutely everything.

“You’re so pretty,” Belial tells him, nuzzling against Lucilius’s thigh and gazing up through his lashes, so intoxicated by the view that he ends up running his mouth more than he should. “I could come just looking at you, I’m so close already—”

“Belial.”

Belial stifles his laugh in Lucilius’s thigh and plants an apologetic little kiss where his lips meet skin, soft and pale and just begging to be kissed red.

“Sorry, Cilius.”

He inhales sharply through his nose, reeling as a heady dose of Lucilius rushes straight to his head, sweat and skin and the faintest hint of sex—not only is Lucilius hard, there’s a bead of precum perched invitingly on the tip of his cock, and it’s all Belial can do not to lunge in and swallow him whole. Lucilius’s cock is so pretty, just like the rest of him—slender, delicately curved, pink and heavy with all the desperation he won’t show on his face.

“So pretty,” Belial says again, because no amount of praise could ever do him justice. He plants a feather trail of kisses along Lucilius’s thigh, agonizingly slow, mouthing against the soft flesh like a prayer, “Beautiful, Cilius, perfect. You’re so fucking perfect.”

As he makes his way up his kisses grow messier, open-mouthed and wet. They bloom pink and red, darker as he goes, punctuated with mindless words of praise, and as he reaches the base of Lucilius’s cock and watches it twitch for him, he groans, exultant, unworthy, “Wanna fuck you so bad.”

He hears Lucilius suck in a sharp breath, feels a tug in his hair and suddenly they’re eye to eye, Belial struggling not to come untouched at the pain in his scalp and the _look_ in Lucilius’s eyes, thawed ice and blown pupils that speak volumes over the order he grates through his teeth.

“Be silent.”

Belial considers his position for a moment, deciding the quickest way back to Lucilius’s dick is to do as he’s told. He nods his acknowledgement, gasping deliriously at the pain that shoots through the roots of his hair at the motion. He wants to laugh, cry, sing, he’s so _lucky._ Lucilius lets him go with a click of his tongue—so reactive!—another personal victory to add to the list.

He settles back down, fingers skimming up Lucilius’s thighs and the length of his cock, ghosting, then wrapping just under the head with a little squeeze and it’s _real_ , the slickness under the sweep of his thumb, the stone floor numbing his knees, the soft exhale of breath above him.

“Cilius,” Belial says, because he just can’t help it—because he’s blissed out of his mind and he still hasn’t touched himself once, and because Lucilius is so wonderfully vulnerable he just can’t help teasing, “would you grant me the honor of sucking your pretty little cock?”

He expects a thump on the head, but Lucilius doesn’t move. He just sits there, elbow propped on the armrest and his cheek leant against his knuckles, legs spread like a king on his throne, and when the corner of his mouth pulls, Belial swears it’s the shadow of a smile.

“I’d grant you the honor of being boiled alive if I didn’t think you’d enjoy it,” Lucilius says, bored tone at odds with his unflagging arousal. “My time is precious, Belial.”

Belial hums his agreement. As much as he wants to edge Lucilius out of his mind, he does _so_ want to be good to him. With a long, slow pump he coaxes Lucilius to weep for him, to give him just a bit more to kiss, to taste. And the taste is divine, bitter as anything, just like his Cilius. He parts his lips and sucks at the tip with an exaggerated slurp, loud and obscene. What he wouldn’t give to have Lucifer walk in on them right now, to see the scandal written all over his pretty face.

But this isn’t about him—it’s Lucilius, just Lucilius, nothing but the quivering heat of him as Belial tightens his lips and slides a few inches down, then back up, topping him off with another kiss. He glances up in search of approval, pleasantly surprised by the intensity of Lucilius’s stare. It’s the look he keeps for his dusty old tomes and his shiny new beasts—a raw, hungry focus Belial’s craved for years. He’s really _looking_ , as if this moment isn’t just a quick means to another sleepless night of poring over reams of slanted cursive. As if maybe, if only for the quickest bat of an eye in their long, immutable lives, it could be about Belial.

Wordlessly, Lucilius nests a hand in Belial’s hair and guides him back to work.

Belial takes him deep this time, needing no further encouragement than each dizzying contact point where Lucilius’s fingers meet his scalp. He falls into a rhythm, working Lucilius with his hand where his mouth doesn’t reach, throwing every stretched-taut fiber of his being into this small act of worship. The fingers in his hair tighten just the slightest bit. Lucilius is pushing, Belial realizes—not hard, but enough to make the message clear.

Belial vocalizes his compliance with a broken moan—because Lucilius asked so nicely, because there’s not a damn thing in all the skies that could keep him from honoring such a request. So he relaxes his jaw, opens his throat, and takes Lucilius to the hilt.

The hiss of Lucilius’s breath through his teeth blows Belial’s ill-conceived fantasies to pieces—no sound he’s invented could ever come close. He wonders vaguely as Lucilius’s cock hits the back of his throat if their dear creator had given Lucifer a gag reflex, another tick on the laundry list of features Belial finds himself lacking. Not that he doesn’t adore this body, crafted to painstaking specifics under discerning eyes and meticulous hands. Be it a happy accident or a deliberate stroke of genius, he’s built to take Lucilius perfectly.

Belial swallows to pull him in tighter, hands splayed out against Lucilius’s kissed-pink thighs. His nose is shoved into soft hair and softer flesh, heady, intoxicating. He wants to fill his lungs with it, breathe until he’s more Lucilius than Belial. He exhales when he draws back, inhales when he dips in, the simple act of drawing breath made divine.

Lucilius really is something else.

It’s disappointingly quiet outside of the slick wet sounds of Belial’s mouth, but Lucilius’s grip is still firm in his hair. Belial imagines him biting himself into silence, holding the pleasure hostage on his face. Try as he might to deny and repress, they wouldn’t be here if Lucilius wasn’t enjoying himself. Next time—Belial’s whole world tips sideways at the thought—he’ll make sure he has a view.

Then Lucilius’s hips jerk and lack of reflex aside, Belial really does choke on a mix of joy and disbelief. Lucilius _wants_ this, wants _him._ He chases his pleasure all the way down Belial’s throat, and Belial hangs on tight and blinks against the stars that prick at his periphery as Lucilius spills into him with a sigh, holding him steady as he swallows.

This is exactly where he belongs, what he was made for.

When he comes up for air, he’s beaming.

Lucilius tucks himself back into his leggings and straightens his robes. He’s quiet, pensive in his afterglow. His lingering gaze is the only praise he offers, but it’s gratifying nonetheless.

Still, Belial thinks he deserves a bit of a reward for a job well done. He straightens up and tucks a lock of hair behind Lucilius’s ear like a lover would, licks his lips—as though he could ever be sated as long as there’s time left for them in the world—and leans in for a kiss.

Lucilius jerks all the way back in his chair and Belial stops short.

“Absolutely not.”

“What, you don’t wanna taste? And here I thought I was being a gentleman, offering to share.”

Lucilius wrinkles his nose, repulsed beyond words. 

“ _Okay_.” Belial laughs and settles back down, painfully aware of his own neglected dick as he shifts his weight. Lucilius notices too, his eyes trailing down to the prominent outline of Belial’s cock in his pants. He seems almost pleased at the effect he’s had. Maybe Belial’s just projecting.

“Touch yourself,” Lucilius says, aloof as ever.

Ordinarily Belial might have quipped back a line about doing all the work, but now he can’t get his pants open fast enough. He hardly has time to savor the moment, though, with Lucilius watching like he’s running a performance test. Belial squeezes his legs together and tries to slow his build, abort his strokes and think unsexy thoughts to steal all the time he can get under Lucilius’s microscope.

It doesn’t work for long, of course, not with Lucilius’s sharp eyes on him, not when one impatient finger starts to tap on the armrest of his chair, and _especially_ not when Lucilius finally opens his mouth to deliver the killing blow.

“Finish, Belial,” he says, void of passion, and Belial comes so violently it takes a good few seconds of frantic blinking before he can even see properly. The force of it tears a sob from his throat and leaves him shaking as he strokes himself through to the end. Even when the aftershocks fade, he’s not sure he’s wholly functioning anymore.

Belial collects himself as fast as he can, on the verge of laughter and tears once the room stops spinning. He wipes his hand on his dirtied undergarments and takes a beat to catch his breath, too blissed out to mind the mess.

“Cil,” he says, once he’s sure he can speak, “Full disclosure. I’ve never come so hard in my life.”

Lucilius has returned to his notes. He looks quite at peace now, already scribbling in the margins.

“Please tell me we’re doing this again. As soon as possible,” Belial says, stretching out as he gets to his feet, a bit wobbly but no worse for wear. “I know a few more tricks that’ll do wonders for your productivity.”

“I’ve been meaning to increase your workload,” Lucilius says without looking up, “as you clearly have no shortage of free time.”

This could very well mean paperwork or scrubbing blood from the cracks in the stonework, but given that Lucilius is well-versed in Belial’s language, there’s every chance the double entendre is fully intentional.

“I wouldn’t mind a little homework,” Belial says with an exaggerated wink and his most winning smile. “You’re always welcome to unload on me.”

Lucilius huffs a breath out his nose like the ghost of a laugh, and when Belial bends to kiss the top of his head, Lucilius doesn’t swat him away.


End file.
